Akiya: Why Are So Many Japanese Houses Empty?

空き家 (akiya) seems to be becoming a phenomenon outside of Japan. Or maybe that is just my algorithm.

I keep seeing and hearing the word akiya everywhere: videos of abandoned Japanese houses, foreigners buying them cheaply, renovating them and turning them into homes or Airbnbs.

But what is an akiya? Literally, it just means an empty house.

And there are a lot of them. Japan had around 9 million vacant dwellings in 2023, the highest number ever recorded. Of course, not all of these are abandoned houses. Some are between tenants, used occasionally, waiting to be sold, or empty for other reasons. But there are also millions that have no current use.

And when you watch some of those renovation videos, you quickly notice something: the houses aren't actually empty. They are full of stuff. Furniture, clothes, dishes, books, appliances... sometimes decades' worth of belongings from the previous owners. And most of the time, it isn't a hidden treasure. It is just a lot of stuff.

But why?

Getting rid of things

In Japan, getting rid of things can be quite a process.

In Toshima-ku, where I grew up, I remember the very organised garbage collection system. Burnable garbage has certain collection days, and glass, cans, paper and other things have their own days, some less frequently.

And then there is 粗大ごみ (sōdai gomi) — oversized or bulky garbage. A piece of furniture or a large household item cannot simply go out with the normal rubbish. You usually have to arrange a collection and pay for it.

There were also two recycle shops in our neighbourhood. We never went there.

Japan actually has quite a large second-hand and reuse culture. There are recycle shops (risaikuru shoppu) everywhere, as well as second-hand clothing shops, bookshops and online marketplaces. But there is a big difference between selling a few things and clearing out an entire house, especially when it is your parents' house.

But then I think of Marie Kondo.

The KonMari method became famous all over the world for helping people decide what to keep and what to let go of. The basic idea is to look at your belongings, category by category, and keep the things you really want in your life. It isn't actually about becoming a minimalist; it is about choosing what you want to keep.

And I suppose that is much easier when the things are yours.

Going through your parents' house after they have died is something completely different. Who decides whether that old cupboard should go? Or the dishes they used every day? Or the clothes that still smell like them? Suddenly, throwing something away isn't just throwing something away.

Maybe that is part of why some of these houses end up filled with things for years.

Nowadays, there is also a growing idea of doing this kind of "life cleaning" while you are still alive. In Japan, this is part of 終活 (shūkatsu) — preparing for the end of life. It can include sorting out your belongings and making arrangements for what happens to your home and possessions, rather than leaving all of that to your family later.

And honestly, I can see the logic.

If you don't have the time or energy to tidy up your own stuff, why would someone else?

In that sense, I am actually quite glad that my mother has already done it. She only has a couple of boxes of personal belongings left, and she isn't even 80.

And then there is the house

I also wonder whether we sometimes look at Japanese houses through very gaijin eyes.

I grew up partly in Japan and partly in America, so I have always had a bit of both perspectives. I love traditional Japanese houses: tatami rooms, shōji, fusuma, wooden details. There is something about them that feels very familiar to me, and yet I can also understand why someone who grew up with them might look at them quite differently.

Because they do require maintenance.

Tatami is made from natural materials and wears down. The woven surface can be replaced when it gets old or damaged. It isn't something that needs replacing every year, as is sometimes claimed, but it is definitely not maintenance-free.

And shōji is paper, so of course paper gets damaged and has to be repaired. Then there is the garden, the wooden structure, the roof and all the other things that need looking after.

Who wants all that extra housework?

So why don't they just sell the house?

This is where akiya gets interesting.

An old Japanese house is not necessarily worth very much. In many cases, especially with older houses, the value is mainly in the land. If the house needs major repairs, it may actually be more of a burden than an asset. And demolishing a house costs money too.

Then there is inheritance.

More than half of newly arising vacant houses are connected to inheritance, according to Japan's Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism. Someone inherits a house in a place where they no longer live, doesn't need it, and doesn't know what to do with it. Clearing everything out, repairing it or demolishing it all costs money.

And Japan has been dealing with population decline for quite a while. The population peaked around 2008, and many rural areas have been losing people for much longer. Fewer people means fewer people looking for houses.

So you can end up with a house that nobody wants to buy, but that is also expensive to get rid of.

And there you have your akiya.

古民家 — kominka

When you start looking into old Japanese houses, you also come across 古民家 (kominka).

A kominka is an old traditional Japanese house. There isn't one exact age that makes a house a kominka, though. It is more about the age, construction and traditional features of the building.

So an akiya isn't necessarily a kominka, and a kominka isn't necessarily an akiya. Some are beautifully maintained and are actually quite desirable.

We visited a semi-akiya

This summer, we visited what I would call a semi-akiya.

The house was more than 60 years old, and I was immediately enchanted by the very Shōwa feeling of it. I loved the layout, and the tatami rooms especially. I would have loved to keep it, after a really, really deep clean, of course.

But then we started looking more closely.

It hadn't been kept in very good condition. Some repairs had been done rather amateurishly, and a serious renovation would have been necessary. And then there was the ranma (欄間), the decorative openwork above the doorways. Because of the traditional layout and the low openings between the rooms, my 185 cm husband would have to duck constantly.

And wouldn't you want to feel comfortable in your own home?

In the end, the disadvantages simply outweighed the things I loved about the house.

That house will eventually be demolished, and that is a little sad because I could see what it once was. But at the same time, it was never built to last forever.

It is a house made largely from wood, paper and other natural materials. It has had its life. People lived there, sat in those tatami rooms, opened those shōji, cooked meals, grew older and raised children.

And now it is coming to an end.

Maybe that is just how it goes.

一期一会 (ichigo ichie).

One time, one meeting.

You don't get to keep everything. Not even a house.